Lion Head Mesa coming up roses

the voice in the dark startled him, such as that the little dog visibly bounced, his dog tag making a tink.

he turned to face his charge, whose progress he'd been following and encouraging for so long, and each step the taller dog (yes, even after so many months, his ignorance persisted) took, no matter how shaky and stumbling, gucci saw as a point of personal pride, as if his own paws had restored crowfeather's mobility.

after that brief scare, the little neb took on a milder countenance, and even if the other could not see his weary smile in the darkness of early morning (the rims of the sky had grown greyer) he kept it there upon his muzzle.

"ah, mistah crawfetha." the former showdog drawled, dipping his head as he saw done within akashigo. his own tail mirrored his equal's in uncertainty.

it... had been a bit. gucci was taught, both directly by his elders and indirectly by his keepers, that foul moods were private things one should not bother others with. so, the chihuahua took to the shadows and the levels of the mesa farther from the rooms and roaming areas of his charge, as to not poorly affect the recovering noble.

more noble than most, it would seem.

dodging the avenue of conversation which would force him to disclose his depression and, god forbid, make crowfeather worry when his only concerns should be with rest and healing, gucci addressed that which he heard whispered in the halls, on those days when his collar did not announce his approach.

"or should'a say, prince crawfetha?" his little brows wiggled in the dark. "mah mah, what ey title! don't thank ah ever properly announc'd mah joy t'be keepin' companionship t' one so dig-nee-fad." his tail adopted a more consistent beat. yes, yes, this would keep him on the right track. the polite track. the civil track.

hello, his accent has gotten worse